Pebbles
by Anesther
Summary: Each pebble is unique, but in the end, they're all from the same place. Drabbles. 30 Day Challenge on tumblr. Kato/Catoniss 6/16/13: Ch 13: Happy Father's Day indeed.
1. Beginning

**AN: MWAHAHAHA, I'M SO ADDICTED TO THIS COUPLE YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW.**

**Okay, so I decided to do something different regarding the Catoniss/Kato pairing. These are drabbles and I have to do one each day (per rules: if I don't, someone gets to whack me and I like my head bruise free). I had LOTS of pairings in mind from all sorts of fandoms that I adore to pieces but I chose these two. They're really winning in all aspects of life. XD**

**To those who read my Kato/Catoniss fics: Thank you so, so much for the support! I'm nothing but a rabid dreamer without you. ;_;**

**Let's get started!**

**DISCLAIMER: Never did it before for this fandom… Ahem. I do not in any way, shape, or form, own— I CAN'T WRITE IT, THE PAIN, THE PAAAAIINN…. My Catoniss/Kato dreams, fluttering into the arms of Miss You Wish and Sir Shan't Ever Happen…. I am very much hurt.**

* * *

Beginning

"Watch those movements; make sure that you block the attack!"

Dodging the blow, the young boy darts down and rolls to his right, managing to keep himself from tumbling too far. He then crouches, and thrusts out his weapon, for his opponent has left themselves wide open for a strike and he imagines his sword penetrating through the flesh, and he can practically see red.

His father falls down upon the ground, stiffer than a corpse.

"Good job, Cato." His mother says from the viewpoint.

Cato grins and turns to face her. She is trying hard not to smile at his boyish charm but he can tell when he's won her over. He looks over to his father who continues to lay on the earth, tongue lopping out and when he gets closer, he grabs Cato and whirls him down, rubbing his knuckles into the boy's scalp, both laughing.

"Honestly, dear, this isn't a game," snaps the woman.

This comment sobers the males. It's true—what they're practicing for isn't a game at all.

She sighs and looks to her left. "Your turn to try,"

The young girl steps out from behind the wall, where she had watched quietly.

Cato eyes her carefully, assessing her closely and this causes her to turn down her head. He wonders if she's blushing—there's red staining her cheeks but he ignores it. This girl has always been peculiar. But he's never questioned it, they've known each other since they were children.

"Katniss, remember that you have to hold the weapon carefully—it's an extension of yourself,"

"Yes, ma'am,"

Cato moves past her, standing next to his mother who pats his shoulder. He takes relief in it. They seem to be in a jovial mood today, they're not normally so amorous. They're affectionate and doting parents, but it has been decreasing with each year that runs into his life. As though they're preparing themselves for the worst pain imaginable and it's true when he thinks about it. He already put his name into the bowl last year for the first time.

"Watch your feet," his mother states and he looks down at Katniss' legs, thin and long. If she keeps tripping over them she'll fall.

She falls.

Cato hears his mother sigh as his father ceases his flurry of attacks by prodding Katniss in the chest, reminding her that this is serious and she should never underestimate her opponent, no matter who they are.

"Cato managed to stab me today and I'm his own flesh and blood,"

"But I'm not Cato!" she yells, frustrated with herself.

"Then learn to be like him!"

Cato finds this command to nettle him sorely. He's not sure why, but he doesn't like the way it sounds.

Katniss sighs heavily as she takes their practice weapons and scurries off to put them away. It's like this all the time—she cannot seem to get into fighting and she knows that she must if she is to survive in the arena. She put her name in along with Cato not too long ago. She stops and turns around, watching the trio talk before Cato's parents walk away.

She waits.

Cato runs up to meet her and he jabs her in the shoulder. "You're going to need to try harder,"

"It's easy for you to say. You're born with the ability to fight."

He shrugs. "Everyone is born with that ability. It just takes time to access it right,"

"Your parents tell you that?"

"No, I am just philosophical sometimes," he tells her, winking.

"Oh please, you probably can't even spell 'philosophical.'"

"And it doesn't matter if I do or don't—spelling isn't exactly an event in the arena."

He's right. She sighs and hangs her head.

"Hey, we'll be fine."

She hopes so. Because she is utterly hopeless.


	2. Accusation

**AN: Thanks to: Kilani Heals, bijtjen, Courtney DiLaurentis, once and future, midnight blue08, xxAveryMercedesxx, Angels on the Moon23, geekypenguin, ElizabethJT, 408934, thepinkmartini, SwimmerGal16 and those following in anon!**

**Gah, this was a BAD time to start another project. Summer school is intense already and it's only the first week. I already had a test today and other tests will follow almost every week. Really bad idea but… it's Catoniss/Kato. IT'LL BE BETTER EVENTUALLY.**

**Do note: not ALL drabbles will correlate or have anything to do with my other stories related to these two, whether as individuals or a pairing. These are just drabbles.**

**Since I haven't done anything since the 9****th****, you get five in a row! Forgive mistakes. Did them all just now. :P**

* * *

_Accusation_

* * *

In the darkness of the world, where the land was scorched by hatred and marred by war, she watches him approach, and she almost hits him. She intensifies the glare meant for him at the distant horizon, trying not to scan the barren wasteland. There are other areas in Panem that have been untouched by the battle. Almost; but not too much…

"You knew," she murmurs into the wind.

He's quiet, the air thick, heavy with smoke and depression and revulsion.

"I did."

"You should've helped us!"

"I am trying to help you!" he snaps, their shouts echoing, mingling together in a bitter cry, "They've taken both of our families if you remember right! This isn't just about you—"

"No, it's not about me and that's precisely the point! How could you have fallen for such a stupid tactic—our families are probably being tortured because we're part of the resistance and there is no way for us to get them out without some sort of preemptive strike and you stand there—"

He narrows his eyes, "Excuse me? I'm the one to blame? I'm not the one who started the rebellion by doing that trick with the berries, you know. You and Lover Boy just had to go against the most powerful force in this country without any backup plan. You should've just let me kill the two of you,"

"You wanted to kill us?"

"Now who's asking such a stupid thing? You know perfectly well that I did—that would've been the only way for me to get home, to my loved ones, to my district, to feed my people, to gain my honor, and that all went away because you decided to show Snow up! You wouldn't fight the sun, would you? You'll get burned, Girl on Fire, and you asked for this the moment those berries were brought to your mouth," he rants, raving, shaking from fear and rage because he can't do anything. He only looks at her, accusing her vocally, his posture accusing her more so.

This was all her fault.

But they had no choice except to help one another.

And they had no one but themselves to accuse for that.


	3. Restless

**AN: Keeping it going.**

* * *

_Restless_

* * *

He is waiting for the light to come up from the horizon. He is waiting with bated breath for the sun to crawl up into the sky. He is waiting for the hammering in his chest to stop beating so wildly, he is just waiting for the world to end and the battle to begin, for the glory to rain upon him or for his life to crash into a blaze of triumph and stress.

He is restless for this day to be over with.

He waits with restless anticipation as he dresses in finer clothing, appearing noble and strong and confident in tight yet loose clothes, revealing his potential but showing the subtlety of his movements and actions.

He waits in the foyer of his home, one of the better houses in the district for those who are better off. He waits for the moment to come. He waits as his mother touches his shoulder, staring at him with confident, forlorn eyes. His father comes to him and only looks at his face, quiet, stiller than stone.

They wait, looking into the eyes of the restless boy who they raised to be restless for this day that, they all knew, would come for him eventually. They waited for the day of death and they prepared him as best as they were capable of doing—which was the best in this district. They wait for the time to happen. That is all they can do right now—wait for the moment to arrive.

The sun is high yet hot in the upside down azure sea, waiting for people to collapse from the weight of dread and the deadly touch of its burning rays.

Voices murmur, floating on wind that waits for no one to command it to move.

The whole world is restless for this, the Reaping.

The land is hushed, hushed into oblivion.

But there are those who are strong enough to try, foolish enough to try, caught up in the waiting of it all, tired of not being in control of their own fates, tired of being restless.

So he steps forth, calling out his name a moment after a girl with sharp eyes and a sharper skill. Cato waits, wanting to be acknowledged, feeling the distant breath of anticipation and wonder and worry from the frozen lips of his parents.

He then moves to the stage and the crowd roars, because they no longer have to wait to learn whom their tributes will be, they no longer have to wait for the moment when the shroud clouds their eyes, they do not have to wait at all now—they have another year of safety. They are saved from their own anxious waiting.

As Cato stares into the eyes of his parents, feeling their worry as well as their pride, he is glad he decided not to wait. He always had a particular restlessness when it came to waiting for the future to decide his end. This time, time can squirm with restlessness—for a moment, however brief, he made a choice of his own and that is victory enough.


	4. Snowflake

_Snowflake_

* * *

She and he have one thing in common—they do not particularly like snow; they don't mind it, but they would prefer to live without it. For him, it's because it reminds him of not being able to move and getting killed; for her, it's because it reminds her of not being able to move and getting killed.

An extra issue for him is that he knows snow can kill you.

An extra issue for her is that she received news of death with the snow.

Snowflakes are pretty, gracing the earth with cool softness, coating it with purity.

However, with the cold, with the buildup of wind, snow blurs until it blinds all, a whiteout that causes people to stumble and lose their focus.

(They've lost their focus.)

Snow comes about in no man's land, increasing with each passing moment, covering the earth with harsh reality.

(They've lost reality.)

Snow comes and destroys all with its splendor, taking loved ones who cannot protect themselves—because, in truth, death doesn't care who it latches onto with cold, thin fingers; it never has and it certainly never will.

(They've lost life and death.)

Snow is a horrible and dreadful thing, changing the land to an empty vastness. Snow just falls and coats everything, controlling everything with its deadly white shroud, a murderous bride.

Yes, it is safe to say that they loathe snow and will want it gone for eternity.

But they do know one other thing about the destructive nature of snow.

It brought them together.

And it will kill them, together.

Yet, despite the cold, the world is very warm.


	5. Haze

_Haze_

* * *

They have been at this for almost a fortnight: fourteen long, grueling days of the evasive and dangerous game that has escalated between the two of them.

He's nothing but a haze in her vision now, however: a blur of bronze, black and blood.

She had managed to run down the hill, evading him for a while, but he continued the pursuit, laughing maniacally, sending shivers up along her spine, a low intone reverberating into her own thumping heart.

It was not too far off from listening to her nightmares, come to life, giving chase, telling her that she should give up, she'll never make it—she has to keep going, for the sake of the people she loves, for the sake of her own being, for the sake of life itself.

But everything is a haze, the forest whooshing past, trunks of manmade ancients obscuring her view, the sound of birdsong drifting away and the heat behind her is increasing.

Then there's a roar.

She almost turns, almost, but she continues to run, frightened out of her mind and she'll admit that.

It dawns on her that there is actual heat behind her, licking at her heels, serpents of fire trying to bite her ankles, bring her down with venom. Then venom is causing her to choke and she blinks, eyes watering. There is venom in her lungs and she coughs. She finally dares to turn and there is fire, closing in on her.

She darts forward, managing to avoid the flames when she hears a scream over the din of hell.

She doesn't know why she halts but she does.

Hanging upon a ledge, hands clenched into dirt and stone, her enemy is trying to haul himself up. She almost forgot that they were near cliffs, so worried about the pursuit of two physical flames that she only just remembered that nature could turn against her as well.

She is about to leave; about to leave the wall of red death approaching with quickening hisses.

But she runs back and kneels before him, grabbing him, pulling him up, telling him they have to find water and fast. Katniss drags him until he is compelled to not resist and just follow her lead, enemies becoming allies in this one fast instance. She leads, he follows.

Water glistens in the distance, a river of life and safety. Grabbing a hold of his arm, Katniss makes certain they plunge together, the fire stopping above them, quiet in the depths and darkness of water.

Swimming up to the surface, she takes a relieved sigh then breathes in deeply. Katniss begins edging out of the river and onto the bedrock nearby; she collapses, exhausted from running. Katniss opens her eyes when the sun is blocked and she stares up into the face of a killer. His face is whiter than disease, pale and drawn.

His jaw is set, frown firm on his face with even firmer eyebrows. She's tempted to smooth them away, delirious in the haze of relief and escaping the maw of death.

Katniss props herself upwards and he moves, allowing her to stand.

She wonders what he'll do now—he is only looking at her, eyes locked upon hers, a battle of stone and ice.

The young woman finally looks away, having no time for such frivolousness. The matter is whether or not he will do something still, so she waits. Any sudden movements may cause him to change his mind.

"Why'd you save me?"

She isn't sure herself. But something in her snapped—it's not that the death of everyone and anyone would give her pause daily. Given the circumstances, she would naturally feel more uncomfortable at the thought of killing someone. But, at the same time, she is more comfortable because it is allowed here in the arena—to kill or not to.

"You realize this doesn't change anything,"

She tenses, knowing what will happen next.

"I know," she susurrates.

"Good." he replies in the same soft voice, gruff but less so.

He's walking away and Katniss cannot help but stare at his retreating form. She desires to ask why he is letting her go.

But he turns, and his eyes are strongly open, "Why did you save me?"

She is silent, only looking into him.

Her enemy sighs, "You can't love me. You know that's not possible."

"I understand…"

"Then we agree," he states. She wonders if she's imagining less conviction in his voice.

When she looks back to see him, he's gone in the haze of ash and redwood, leaving her heart to wander its own toxic haze of fumes.


	6. Flame

_Flame_

* * *

He chases her again. It's become almost a game—a deadly, poisonous game of her eluding and him running.

The question is why.

There have been instances when he could have ended this, when he could've just gone home. But he continues to chase her, a light in the dark, burning brightly, and he realizes she is something that he desires to catch above all else. Maybe even more than the recognition from home; maybe…

He finds her infectious—she's a living flame. He knows he'll burn if he gets too close but that's the invigorating part, the exciting part, the natural part. He is meant to pursue valuable things, to go after the unattainable. It's what he was born to do.

Then there's a roar.

He doesn't notice her continue on ahead because he stops to see what's behind him and, to his shock, a wall of breathing, harmful sunset is upon the land, sliding off the horizon, approaching quickly, to engulf him into the sun—into the light he so badly wants.

He sprints after her, dashing, leaping, tumbling over gnarled roots and treacherous footholds. Cato watches the girl become a distancing figure, dark, illuminated by the light behind them. Smoke enters his lungs and he chokes, hacking, trying to extricate the wisps of death from his lungs but to no avail. He only manages to hurry on, at a loss as to why this is happening to them now.

The hellish hissing increases and fire is about to consume him into its large mouth—

He lets out a yell of surprise and a grunt when his hands latch onto earth, recognizing the texture immediately, having lived in earth and gravel. He looks down; he realized what had happened the instant he let out the yell. He tries to gain a steady foothold upon the side of the cliff, attempting to haul himself up. Rocks slide beneath him, clacking against one another, leaving him to die. Cato gulps, the feel of heat on his fingers—

His wrists are gripped tightly. Cato's head snaps back, staring up into the face of his enemy, who is, currently, telling him that they had to find water and fast. Yanking him unceremoniously back up, Cato feels her hands grip around his upper arm, dragging him. He almost doesn't—because of the smoke, because of her, but he recognizes the importance of living over not trusting her. So he trusts her, just this once.

They run and there's water glistening in the distance. She halts beside him, making certain that he takes the first plunge. The water coming over his head is a welcoming relief. He floats, weightless, opens his eyes. She is beginning to head to the surface and questions brim to the top of his mind.

All the inquiries revolve around her.

Cato leans back against a large boulder, breathing in deeply, just enough to keep an eye on her, even though they had their differences. Why did she go back for him? He stares at her, contemplating heavily on this development between he and the Girl on Fire.

He thinks of her constantly, even with her so near. He kneels before her, blocking out the sun from view. She looks at him.

His jaw is set, frown firm on his face with even firmer eyebrows. Her eyes soften. He makes sure his harden.

"Why'd you save me?" he asks, having had enough with not knowing anything of information. Mainly when it comes to her; what does this mean? Why does she look at him so quietly, her mouth full and parted slightly.

"You realize this doesn't change anything," he tells her, wanting to make it simple and clear, the predicament that could lead them to an unforgivable situation. An intensity in her shoulders makes him double check to see how she's feeling, what it means. He never thought he could be interested into learning what is in her mind, in her life.

She's certainly dejected now, "I know,"

"Good." He answers her, but he doesn't make it sound too unappreciative of what she's done, not too harsh to push her away. Withal, it's definitely enough.

He starts to walk away from her, mind spinning. He knows that her eyes are on his back, "Why did you save me?"

The quiet answer is enough.

Her enemy sighs, "You can't love me. You know that's not possible.

"I understand…"

Something in him dies when she utters those words of complete defeat. He doesn't want her light to be extinguished—that's what makes her the Girl on Fire; she was born to lead flames into battle.

"Then we agree," Cato contemplates if she caught the sound—less conviction in his voice.

He doesn't know if she looks back as he walks away, however that's inconsequential. He walks into dead things where hell ravaged it, all hot and boiling his skin, similar to how he felt whenever he pursued her, wanting to capture her, to find her and put her light into his chest that she caused, the flame within.


	7. Formal

**AN: Thanks to: Kilani Heals, Courtney DiLaurentis, thepinkmartini ,criticderomance, and those following in anon!**

**To address a question: Yes, they are all different scenarios/stories for the most part. Take 5 and 6 for instance. They correlate because it's the same situation taken account from both Katniss and Cato's POV. 1, 2, 3 and 4 do not have anything to do with each other.**

* * *

_Formal_

* * *

There's black and white, the colors of formality; then there's the contrast of green and brown, the colors of nature's beauty.

She's a combination of both, standing with her hands clasped in the front of her slender body. Her eyes, full of fire, are upon the earth she's rising from, an apparition of wonder and loveliness.

Cato waits with bated breath, heart pounding.

Their wedding may be a formal affair, but he knows that the way his heart is racing, the way she stares at him and he stares at her—dressed in the brightest white he's seen, roses brighter than blood and stems greener than the natural desires of man in her hair—is perfect.

Nothing has been easy; they know this better than anyone watching her come to his side.

Not everyone was supportive.

The world shouted dissent—their love caused the earth to shift, with nature murmuring agreement against mankind. This is man and woman, born to be together, but circumstances and views and humanity voiced no. They may be born into the same world, come from the earth and coal, however, who were they to be the exception? He rose out of the dirt and brushed it off, becoming someone to fear and revere.

She was just a nobody who did something extraordinary.

That's why he loves her so much.

So he grins stupidly when she comes to his side, beaming incredibly bright. A giggle bubbles from her lips and touches his ears, music and love in the sunshine she cherishes. It's formal because it has to be hidden by some. Their marriage must be quicker than falling stars but they take their time when they touch, now and later when alone, finally at ease, fingers entwined, rings placed—claimed forever.

Touching is, definitely, the last thing they want to be formal with.

Katniss insists to Cato on it.

He has no problem agreeing; he's never been much for formality anyway and passionate love can forget about it sometimes.

* * *

**AN: Because it's been asked. CLOSE TO FLUFFY AS IT'S GONNA GET, PROBABLY. I'm actually bad at fluff. :P**


	8. Companion

**AN: Thanks to: Kilani Heals, thepinkmartini, criticderomance, Courtney DiLaurentis, Alis-May, Elizabeth JT, Dilos, those who've reviewed and added before and my anon! I am so sorry for the lack of updates on everything THG-related. I get like five hours of sleep at most nowadays from life in general so I just get sleepy. I stayed up tonight to get some drabbles going. I really miss writing…**

**Let's see how many I can get done!**

* * *

_Companion_

* * *

"Are we friends?"

"What makes you think that we're not?"

"Your parents don't seem to like me too much."

A snort softly goes out. "What are you, five?"

A punch goes swiftly into a lean muscled shoulder. "What are you, an ass? It's a legitimate question."

He laughs and is amused by her antic. Cato props himself on his elbows, and she follows. They don't put their skin too close to each other, don't look directly at each other, breathe the air from different directions; only people who are more than friends do actions opposite of what they're doing.

They're friends, and that's it.

"Of course we're friends."

Katniss nods, pleased by the answer and lays back upon the coarse, dead earth, longing for grass that she's never really seen; it's quiet out here, with the sound of people chattering and her friend's heartbeat becoming familiar background music to her ears, rhythms in the little womb she's placed herself in.

"We are friends, aren't we?"

She turns to him, smirking and rolling her eyes. "Now look who's acting childish."

"Don't act like the big-shot, here," he tells her, wanting to playfully push her, "You had just asked the same thing."

"It's just for clarification. You sort of grunted."

"I do not grunt,"

"Of course you do. You could probably pass for one of the monsters they unleash into the arena."

"Why would you say something like that?" he's not offended or even disturbed that something so gruesome came out of her mouth; he asks her this because he genuinely wants to know.

"Look at you—all brawn and no brain up, there, Cat,"

"You're one to talk, Kitty."

"Hey, hey, cheap shot!"

"You're the one that decided to call me a feline. Which is insulting—I don't even like cats."

She laughs, throwing her head back, "You don't like anything!"

"That's not true!" he shouts, his voice pitching up a little—this only happens when he's really embarrassed. And she knows that he is. He's been her friend for as long as she could remember the sun and breathing.

"Oh, no? What do you like then?"

"Training,"

"Besides training,"

"What is there besides training?"

She looks at him incredulously and he does to her as well.

"There's much more to life than training!" she stands, arms out, "I've always wanted to go to the forest, beyond District 2, explore the woods without the Peacekeepers watching us all the time. Don't you ever wonder what is out there?"

He snorts. "You mean besides our deaths?"

Katniss pretends she isn't slighted, ignoring his sarcasm. "You can be as pessimistic as you want."

She turns, looking at the greenery that is forever beyond her reach, the place where she's always felt would be her true, welcoming home. "But I'll find a way to the forest. There's more to life than death,"

"We were born to die."

"All of us are born and then we die, but we're meant to live too. Many of us just never get to…"

Cato rises, knowing he's hurt her, but he makes no move to apologize. She and he may live within the same vicinity, know each other since childhood, however he has to keep his mind clear; she is also below his station for a number of reasons. The biggest one of all being a secret; one she doesn't even know.

So he places a hand on her shoulder and she turns beneath the warm strength of his palm.

Companions do this all the time.

The gaze is held too long though…

She breaks first, knowing her place. "We should be heading back."

He follows after her without a word, only glancing once at the forest behind them. He knows they're not prepared to make such a leap into the unknown, not with the risks and their lack of knowledge. But the idea is always tempting. For now, they'll have to be each other's sanctuary. Friends do that all the time.


	9. Move

_Move_

* * *

Both have confident and swift movements. Purposeful, assured, people that know what they want and when they desire to get it.

That's where the similarities end.

He's the predator to her prey; he's the wolf to her deer. Both live in this world to survive but his survival is dependent on her death and her survival depends on his death; with hers, however, only the interference of man can kill him—then man will try to kill her. She'll always be the one on the move, no matter how much she cries to transform into something with talon and wings. That way, she can always be moving, flying, out of reach and claw out the eyes of whoever dares to take a shot.

They've become nothing except entertainment and game to the people here.

Yet everyone knows that they will be tough opponents. Both are too strong in their instincts to survive.

He eyes her carefully, displaying teeth. He'll be quiet when he has her.

She prods ahead, not looking back. She'll be quiet to evade.

So they continue to move.


	10. Silver

**AN: Because if Cato was a bigger douchebag… Consider this a 'what if' moment or a 'deleted concept.'**

* * *

_Silver_

* * *

The moon is slimmer than an eyelash, winking above me in the dark night. I walk down the stairs, trying not to fall—the dress is bunching itself about my legs, keeping me from righting myself properly. It's also been a long while since I've used them.

There's no sound within the whole place.

I'm sitting now, with only the rattle of silverware, gleaming in the candlelight with all the luster of its namesake. The utensils may even be made out of it.

He doesn't talk to me, only watching me carefully.

I wonder why he's allowing me so close to knives and forks. He's not worried that I'll attack him? Or kill myself? He probably thinks me too weak by now.

And he's right.

I wouldn't do it. Not at this point.

I place a hand upon my stomach.

"You need to eat."

"I don't want to."

"You'll kill the baby."

"And so will you."

He waves my comment dismissively. "I'm not the one bearing it. You need to eat, otherwise it won't grow."

"I don't want it to grow! The child will be thrown into the arena!"

My captor drinks red from a glass, and I fear it. I don't recall him coming to me drunk, none that I'm aware of—he's violent all the time—but it looks too much like blood sloshing itself around in it.

"An abortion is unthinkable."

"I never said I wanted it aborted!" I honestly don't. I just don't want it. I don't want this little one created out of heated rage and abuse. I don't want it born into this world because it won't be able to handle the ridicule, the dictatorship of it all.

"Then eat."

I don't move to pick up the fork and knife. It'll too be tempting to stab out his eyes.

"Or I'll shove the food down your throat."

He'll do it too. He almost did it the last time in the room.

So I consume the food he's placed in front of me, my stomach rumbling.

He laughs, and I cringe at the sound, harder than silver in the dense air.


	11. Prepared

**AN: This one can go with 'Accusation.' It's one of the plots in my head.**

* * *

_Prepared_

* * *

"Are you ready?"

"Why don't you worry more about yourself?"

He laughs at her. "Just trying to help you out,"

"I don't need you to help me out. Just focus on the mission."

"I do focus on the mission. I'm not the one that decides to barrel out into the middle of the battlefield without so much as a single plan. That's why I'm in charge of the expedition."

"I know. So you've told me a hundred times. Let's just finish the reconnaissance and get this over with."

He knows why she wants to get back and he doesn't blame her. Prim is not faring well, not lately. She caught some type of flu which looks more akin to a disease than a bad case of a bug.

They survey the area just in time, heading back to their underground base as a large hovercraft appeared overhead, flying above them, ominously hanging in the sky. Katniss and Cato watch in silence as the large piece of destruction continues onward to the east.

"When do you think we'll be prepared to make our move?" she inquires after a long stretch of silence.

"Whenever our commanders believe we're ready to fight the Capitol."

"This is taking too long."

"You're not the only one impatient to get the invasion started. Remember that. But we need to plan things out—we can't just barge in."

"We barged in before,"

"And came out with twenty wounded and fifty dead out of the one-hundred who went on the last mission; the others were lucky that they escaped with their lives intact when we gathered them back for the base."

That was the last time anyone held such a large expedition. It had been a huge risk, sending one-hundred of the rebellion's soldiers into battle in terrain that was unfamiliar to the majority of them.

Katniss folds her arms, walking an arm's length from his side. She doesn't like being close to him, but they need to stay together, in case anything happened. They couldn't afford to lose anything. She doesn't like the silence but it allows them to hear so she doesn't say anything else.

She has been a part of the rebellion for four years now. During her time as a tribute in the Games, she managed to make it out alive, with Peeta as well. It was a relief to the whole of District 12; then the Quarter Quell occurred and it went downhill from there, straight into the maw of hell.

Katniss met Cato, the Victor before her, when she and all her loved ones were transported to the base of the rebel's headquarters. Her defiance against the Capitol had stirred the nation's embers of the war of the past, the Dark Days coming back full force in the minds of the leaders, especially Snow. She was considered valuable, thus kept.

She much preferred going out and doing things like this—it gave her a feeling of actually accomplishing something at the end of the day. She never liked feeling unprepared for anything.

Cato, to her surprise, had joined the rebellion cause, more out of the need to save his family, and also because he hated the Capitol too. It went deeper when she heard it all from another rebel. He had been a part of the cause much longer than either of them—even before becoming a Tribute. It would explain how he learned such skill at such a young age. His parents could afford to hide their tracks. He always seemed to be a favorite of the Capitol, so she never gave him much credit. She had still. Then she recalls seeing him snap the neck of a Capitol guard with deft swiftness, not even looking down to make sure the man was dead. He knew how to kill and she left that up to him.

She and he were always paired together for any scout mission. With his brutality and her stealth, they were considered one of the best pairs to do their jobs and do their jobs right.

It was a shame she hated him so much.

"Wait a minute," Cato says, holding up a hand.

Katniss halts, listening to the sound of empty wood. There's the snap of a twig and both turn in the direction of the noise.

Gale emerges from the forest, holding onto his weapon, stern in the shadowy light.

"What are you doing here?" barks Cato, hating to be disturbed from a mission.

"I was sent out to scope the terrain as well," answers Gale calmly, narrowing his eyes at the younger man. "The commander back at base thought you may need some help."

Cato snorts derisively, "I've been a part of this much longer than either of you,"

"We've had to battle to survive just like you," Gale bites out, "You've been pampered all your life."

"You call having to volunteer into the Games 'pampered?' You don't know anything about what I've had to do."

Katniss stares at the two of them, Cato and Gale both stiff. Gale does not intend to apologize and Cato doesn't expect him to. They've never liked each other, which causes much worry and dissension. Peeta doesn't like Cato either and can tolerate Gale well enough, however, unlike these two, Peeta can put aside whatever feelings and discomfort he may have and get the job done.

These two would be lucky not to squabble every single day.

Katniss motions for them to follow, gripping Gale by the arm and dragging him away.

He almost looks smug as she pulls him away.

Cato grimaces deeply, raising a brow.

She caught the look, and wasn't prepared for the feelings in her to wash over.

"Come on," she says, "We need to hurry back."

Cato comes up and continues to walk ahead, leaving Gale and she behind.


	12. Knowledge

**AN: Well, dang, it's been a while. Okay, so I can't properly thank people on account I don't have all my old emails, but the support is as appreciated as ever!**

**This drabble initially began as something totally different but then I remembered that The Giggling Gummy Bear had asked me for something more specific regarding these characters back in September and I enjoyed going back into TCBS/TSCO narrative for a bit after such an excruciating hiatus. And it's finally from the POV I've been wanting to do for a while...**

_Knowledge_

I sit, bored, looking out the window. I gnaw on my pencil, lick the eraser and the funny taste makes me bunch up my face. I sigh.

"Hyacinth, is there something you should be doing?"

I turn to face my teacher, "Yes, ma'am."

"Then you should get to it," she tells me.

I nod. Wait for her to look down. Stick out my tongue.

"Mrs. Larson! Hyacinth stuck out his tongue!"

I look at the jerk that ratted me out, my legs pushing me from my chair, "No, I didn't!"

Mrs. Larson looks up, staring at me. "Hyacinth, I am not going to ask you again—do your work." She gets up and walks over to the whiteboard to write my name, "I'm just going to have to keep in from recess today."

I groan. The class makes a long 'ooh' sound at my punishment. They shut up when Mrs. Larson looks at them. She's not that scary. She's just really tall and her eyes are kind of black. They're just a bunch of babies.

I focus on my work, practicing the cursive worksheets. Again. I follow the dotted lines, pressing my pencil in. I like it when the writing is dark and it stands out on the white, my name popping out at me. I look up at my teacher and see she's reading.

Turning my paper over, I start drawing a circle. I remember that Mrs. Larson doesn't like it when we scribble on our worksheets. I blow out air through my nose and put my head on my arms. I already did this dumb thing enough today. I get my pencil and chew on it, wanting to get up. My knee twitches. I scratch it.

Looking at the clock, I see that it'll be another five more minutes until it's time for recess. Sixty seconds in a minute. Get one sixty, add another, which equals one hundred and twenty. Add another: one hundred and eighty. There's two sixties left, so that's one hundred and twenty. I add the remainder to one hundred and eighty…should be three hundred.

Three hundred seconds.

I look at the clock. I managed to get rid of sixty seconds already.

This is taking forever…

Staring at my worksheet, I pick up my pencil, not liking the taste anymore and decide to finish my circle. I don't like it not finished. And I'm in trouble already anyway.

I've done seven more circles. I like that they're looking better as I practice. Uncle Gale says that's the only way I'll get any good.

"Alright, class, time for recess,"

The others rush up past me and I feel air as they whiz by, whoosh! I get up all excited, wanting to get on the swing first—

"Hyacinth Everdeen," Mrs. Larson shouts, "You get back to your desk. You are not playing right now."

I know better than to argue and walk slowly back to my desk. I pick up my paper and give it to Mrs. Larson. She takes it, staring at it, then me.

"You drew on it again,"

"I know. I got bored." I tell her.

She gives me this really funny look, her eyes getting smaller and she almost looks like she wants to smile but I think I'm not seeing it right. She pulls out a piece of paper. "I want you to write down twenty times that you will not perform such inexcusable behavior that way again."

"Do I have to use those words precisely? They sound big and complicated."

She gives me that strange look again. "Just write, 'I won't stick out my tongue and I'll behave in class' for me."

Taking the paper, I walk back to my desk. It's not too bad since the sentence is long and it makes my fingers ache a bit. But after line number three, I know what to do. I finish soon, ending my last 'class' with a little more loop at the end of the 's' than usual. It looks cool and reminds me of snakes that I see in the books I read.

I still got a couple minutes before the class comes back. I'm done so I look at the window again. Birds fly over the window and one sits nearby. I stare at its feathers and I wonder how it feels to fly. My mama loves birds and she sings pretty songs that get them to join. She's like a princess in those old stories I sometimes read when I got nothing else to do. I wish I was home already.

The bell rings. My peers are loud and thumping on the floor. Their noise hurts my ears. I give them an aggravated stare, crossing my arms. Do all kids have to be so unruly? Mrs. Larson sometimes calls us that and I wonder if she's right.

"Alright, class, settle down!" Mrs. Larson shouts, clapping her hands. Everyone shuts up. "I hope you all know who to bring for Parent Appreciation Day next week, beginning Monday."

Everyone starts talking to each other. I just sit quietly, lower my head, and my desk is the only thing I feel okay with looking at.

I'm pushed at my shoulder. I turn to stare at them hard.

"Sorry, Cynth," says Gina, smiling.

"It's okay," I say, "And it's Hyacinth,"

Gina tells me, "Hyacinth, who are you bringing?"

"I don't know yet,"

"Why not?" asks Lionel. He always seems to come from no place. Makes me all sweaty not knowing where people are gonna show up.

"Because I don't know yet," It's none of their business. And I was talking to Gina.

"I'm bringing my dad," Lionel tells Gina and me.

"Me too!"

I get my things, put them in my backpack.

"So why don't you know?" Gina asks me again. I wish she'd shut up.

"Leave me alone. I don't know."

Lionel smiles this smile that makes me want to punch him, "All he has is his mom,"

Gina turns to me, "Nuh-uh! You got a dad, right? He's tall, dark hair and stuff."

I get up and ignore them, walking outside and head for home. It's not far away. And I get tired of hearing people that make me angry.

I see home so I run, crashing through the door. I make a loud squeaking noise on the floor with my shoes.

"Hyacinth, welcome home!"

I turn fast and hug Aunt Prim. "Hi! Where's Mama?"

She pats my head, "She's upstairs sleeping,"

"Oh, okay,"

"You have a good day?"

I shrug.

She looks at me with that quiet face she does when she looks unhappy with an answer. "Didn't turn out so well today, huh?"

"Kids are stupid,"

She laughs, "You're a kid, too, silly,"

"I'm not a kid. I'm five now."

"I know, love," she kisses my head. She doesn't talk anymore about it, which makes me in a better mood. I sit down and she gives me a glass of chocolate milk. I slurp it up. It tastes really good since I'm thirsty. I look at the stairs when I hear a creaking noise.

"Mama!"

I jump and go into her arms really fast and snuggle and she turns me around in her arms, whee! She smells good, like those lilies Aunt Prim takes care of. I smack a kiss on her cheek.

"Hello sweetheart," She says, voice low and raspy-like. Probably from sleeping. She puts me down but I don't mind. Mama's really skinny so I worry sometimes if I'm so heavy I'll break her. It hasn't happened which is good. I had a nightmare like that once and it was so scary.

"Any homework for the weekend?"

"No," I shake my head, "But on Monday there's this thing where parents have to come,"

Mama and Aunt Prim give each other a long look. Aunt Prim gets closer to me on her knees. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not in trouble!" I shout.

"No one said you were Hyacinth," Mama tells me, touching my shoulder. "But we just don't know what you mean. Like a parent-teacher conference?"

"Kind of," I say, "I just have to bring my parents. Everyone's parents are supposed to."

"To do what?"

I blow air into my cheeks, tired of explaining, "I dunno. Talk about their dumb jobs and stuff,"

"Ah…" Mama says, "You mean a Parent Appreciation Day,"

"Yeah!" I'm happy she knows but…now I'm not happy she knows.

"I don't even remember us having to do that," Aunt Prim tells Mama.

"Well, that was back in District 12, where most people had the same kind of work. So it was rather cumbersome."

A new word. "What does 'cumbersome' mean?"

"It means it would've been too much trouble."

"Parent Appreciation Day is a trouble?"

Mama just stares at me a bit then smiles. "It depends on how you look at it."

I nod. "So since it's trouble, we don't have to do it?"

Aunt Prim speaks, "Do you not want to go?"

"Not really."

They're both really quiet. I play with my shirt, pulling at a loose string. Mama puts her hand on mine.

"Did something happen at school?"

"No," My voice is loud.

"Sweetie, you can tell me,"

I cross my arms. Look down. I don't wanna talk about it. I talk enough already and it's cumbersome.

Mama sighs, "This sounds like an important assignment…"

I keep my mouth shut tight. Bad idea—teeth hurt.

Aunt Prim says Excuse me and goes upstairs. Mama kneels on her knees to look at my face but I don't want to look at hers right now, even if I know she's the prettiest in the whole world and I haven't seen Mama all week.

"You can always take—"

"They're not my mom and dad, Mama," I tell her, "It has to be my _real_ parents,"

Mama gets that blank look on her face and my heartbeat goes superfast—thump thump thump—and I'm scared 'cause when she looks like that she looks dead.

Mama smiles and I breathe out. My heart goes 'ssh' but I stare to make sure my eyes aren't playing games.

"It was just a suggestion Songbird."

She gets up and goes to the kitchen to make us dinner. I know Mama doesn't like talking about it. We all love Uncle Gale and Aunt Madge but they don't count. It's in the rules: bring your parents. I don't say it again since I want Mama to not go all quiet. It's creepy and she gets those blank looks a lot.

I remember my real dad who is in the hospital. I say nothing about him too.


	13. Denial

**AN: So today I hope everyone has a good time with their fathers! The narrative for this one is different.**

* * *

Denial

* * *

The two of them sit, blankly staring at the man in the bed.

He breathes evenly, eyes closed. His skin once had a healthy glow, she remembers; now it looks too sickly for her liking. She'll have to see to someone about that. She knows that, even in comas, the doctors have better medicine for people. But from the coma, in a sleep where no one can wake him from, his countenance seems youthful all at once as well, as though the man is caught between two states of being, a horrifying and blessed limbo.

"So," states the boy, "this is my father."

She breathes in, breathes out, "Yes."

He's quiet, small and still in the little chair.

Denial suddenly fills the air. The boy wishes that it wasn't true, and so does she. It's awful but understandable.

But denial never helps anyone—if anything, it prolongs the inevitable.

No one thought it was a good idea to take him here. He is older now, able to understand better than in infancy. People told her she should stop. That he shouldn't have to know where he came from. And if he asked, lie. But then her son's life would be nothing but a lie itself. Five is too young for anything, especially lies. But so are the concepts of life and death, of forgiveness and revenge.

She is beginning to question her decision. To put this much weight on a child's shoulders was unthinkable for most—to give them a false hope that maybe, just maybe, their parent would return.

But it's not like he's close to his father, really.

He just knows him as the dead man in the bed, and with the years going by, he becomes more and more like the corpse of a prince who has yet to wake up.

The boy doesn't remove his eyes from the man. His gaze resembles his mother's. "How was your father, Mama?"

The question takes her aback but she looks at him. "He was a wonderful man."

"How wonderful?"

"Very wonderful," she says, "He taught me a lot."

"Like what?"

"How to hunt, how to keep bows and arrows in shape, how to recognize plants, how to sing…"

The boy blinks, "Was his voice as good as yours?"

"Yes, though I like his better,"

So, he owes another dead man for his mother. It's too, too sad. Owing people both beyond the grave and barely living for the one person he knows he cherishes above all. He feels hate at an age too young. He doesn't cry, but she does.

It's times like these where she misses the comfort of her father, to tell her what to do when she is so tired of making mistakes and being scared.

What do you tell a child who came from violent means? What do you tell a child who has to learn, eventually, that they were born from rape? How do you explain why their mother has flashbacks so violent they still leave her screaming at night? How do you explain why their father lies comatose before their eyes and there are people—the ones they love—relieved that it happened? Or, in this horrible case, explain to a child _both_ parents were victims of cruelty and warfare—where the father's mind was raped to rape the mother's body, breaking the souls of both?

_When_ do you explain any of _this_?

Her son and she both have absent fathers. She lost hers in an accident, and so did he. Hers was lost in one of tragedy so common she received little to nothing for it, and so did he, albeit not common—electrocution is saved for natural events, like lightning, or the execution of prisoners. And, if she thinks on it, his father was long gone before he was even born, in a thing so common it can't _not_ be an accident—and that is the rape.

She holds out her hand, waiting for her child to respond.

He doesn't, still staring at the phantom he was born from. He can see similarities between them—the color of their hair, of their skin. Aside from the eyes, he doesn't look like Mama at all.

He wonders if that bothers her sometimes.

"Honey," she whispers, "let's go,"

The boy hops down from the chair, light on his feet, graced with the ability of both parents. And it's sad how much no one can see that. That he's born with other things—his kindness, his easygoing temperament, his affinity for literature and athletics, his determination; to the community, he's the boy born from a tragedy, and, therefore, pitied; to the doctors, he's the boy born from a rape, and, therefore, a project.

He's something people point at when he's nearby, he's something people discuss, he's something examined and prodded at to see what makes him tick—the venom of Tracker Jackers on his parents could have affected him—both their minds, at one point, had been tampered with; the dispositions of his mother and father, who were almost borderline on mental disorders to begin with, may have done him in too. Thank God they found better medical practitioners with hearts.

Because this is what the rest of the world sees: a violent, sullen and angry little boy who has no business being here without knowing _why_ and _how_ his existence has come to light; his birth is one of mystery, of deceit, of such utter speculation that how could they _not_ talk about it? It's a tale equal to ancient ones, and, honestly, just a good dose of gossip.

It makes his loved ones sick.

He takes his mother's hand, and they exit quietly, down the hall, out into the world, where everything suddenly seems too loud and cheery and bright for both of them.

Yes, though her mother and she are better, these are times when Katniss Everdeen misses her father most, relying on him, even though he's gone.

Hyacinth squeezes her hand, only needing and wanting his mother; what good are fathers when they're in a world you cannot reach?

They're tired of denial.


End file.
